Wednesday, June 16, 2010
There’s this fantasy I’ve had for practically my whole life, okay? This is a real fantasy I’m sharing. Dig.
When I was a kid around 16 or 17 I used to mow lawns for money around the neighborhood. There was this one woman, Mabel Krause, something like that. German. I would say looking back she was around her mid or late fifties, probably dead by now. She had a tall, matronly body with teutonic Wagnerian boobs swaying under tight sweaters, even in the summer. Well, you see it coming already. I mow the lawn. Its hot. She’s there. She’s horny and bored. She has a secret thing for young men as I have always had a thing for older women. Time to pay for the lawn.
This of course is where it always varies. Just as jazz musicians like to toss off a melody and then noodle around with a dozen variations of it, there are dozens of thrilling variations of what happens after she opens the door and invites me in to offer me payment for the lawn work. After all, an older woman knows when a young man is sneaking stares at her chest, even when he tries to hide it. And after all, there are more memorable ways to thank him for a job well done besides mere money.
One of these variations goes like this. Payment. Well, young man, there are many ways of payment. I can give you five dollars (This was many years ago. The rates have gone up.) or I can offer you something else. Ohh, I bleat, wide eyed and calf like. Like what, Mrs. Krause? She pulls her sweater off over her head and tosses it in a fetchingly bitchy manner over her shoulder as she shakes out her hair. She unbuttons the top buttons of her blouse and takes a deep breath or so. Let’s go into the other room. It’s cooler there. This is the time of day I like to take a nap. Would you like to take a nap too?
Okay and then this and that, which ends up in a predictable manner unless I can think of an unpredictable manner. But after its done, basking in the sweaty glow on top of the bed spread, I the too young – barely legal man say “You know. About what just happened. I mean, I know you can tell anyway, but really I don’t know anything about how to fuck. But I want to. Let’s make a simple deal, Mrs. Krause – “
“I think after what you’ve just done, you can call me Mabel.”
“Mabel. I have an offer for you. Teach me about women. Teach me how to make love to a woman the right way. In return you can have me. You can use me for your personal sex toy every afternoon, everything, any crazy weird thing you’ve ever wanted to do with a man’s body and were afraid to ask. You can do it with me. Just us two. Use me to explore yourself. What do you say?”
And so on and so on.
I think things like this really happen.
Somewhere out there in the wicked world a young man with more exciting karma than I was bestowed with is washing the lawn clippings off his face in the bathroom sink and a woman old enough to be his mother is standing just behind him biting her lip and curling her toes and wondering if she should invite him to use her shower. Somewhere, as you read these words this is actually happening. Somewhere in The Naked City, a young man is laying or sitting up nude in bed, having just rinsed off his dick in the bathroom sink, and a much older, also nude, woman is giving him some prosaic explanations and impromptu gynecology lessons about how to interact with the female body, much like a master musician instructing a particularly bright student after a vigorous practice.
Somewhere, oh Friends of The Inner Sanctum, this is really going on.
I think it happens all the time, these taboo affairs, especially these days when everything is so much out in the open. I wonder what women, especially erotica women writers reading this would do if a young man offered them this Faustian bargain? Make me your dildo with a heart beat. Teach me everything you wish a lover would know. Dress me in Batman clothes. Handcuff me to the bed with a Barrack Obama mask on election night. I will submit myself to your wildest desires absolutely and unquestioningly. Exhaust yourself on the monkey bars of my young virile anatomy. Then wash me off and do it all again.
People do this. Turn objects into people. Turn people into objects. That’s not what’s interesting, that’s just human nature. What’s interesting is the shadow part of us that wants them to do this to us.
I’m currently finishing a story anthology which I hope will be out this summer. One of the stories is called “El Pimientero Mi Amor” which was a goofy story I’d written a couple of years ago and kind of forgotten about until Lisabet advised me to dig it out and give it another look. I did and in the process I began to understand what the story was really about, as so often happens. Now I really like this story. It’s a hell of a story I think, but I needed someone to give me a reason to take it out of the drawer. It takes my teenage fantasy, plus a woman I knew who was one of the great teachers of my life (I have written of her here several times) and brings them into some substance. It is my valentine to older women. To make a long story short (and its pretty long) it involves a young man named Chacho and a much, much older woman named Doña Soledad. In its earlier drafts, and it’s been rewritten four times before I had to take a deep breath and make myself stop, it was a kind of revenge story. Now there’s a lot of things going on in this story about lost love and regret. He doesn’t mow lawns for her, he runs a movie projector for her movie house, but by and by they end up where I would’ve liked to have ended up with Mabel Krause.
During a scene in the kitchen she is giving him lessons on cunnilingus for his future performance someday with his future bride – all very chaste – with a kind of lab practice using kitchen objects such as a split half of a papaya, which represents a method of licking, and a stalk of okra which represents another form of licking. Anyway, it makes some kind of sense when you read it, which I hope you will all unlimber your wallets and do someday. Later on these innocent kitchen props return as she calls them out to him in her bed:
I shifted and laid down next to her on my left side, side by side, face up close to her face. She pecked my lips with hers. “I’m in love with you.” I said, testing to see if the storm was passed.
“I’m so in love with you too.” she said. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Not to me.” I said. “No.”
She wiggled closer, threw her leg over mine and then enfolded her arms around me. Face close. She pressed her mouth to mine, lips tight. Teeth. Her tongue touching mine. My tongue lacing and licking hers. I was the happiest man in the world.
“Okay.” she whispered. “So we’re both lost. Then we’ll just have to be lost.”
She pressed me down like a wrestler and rolled me onto my back. She straddled me from above, breasts dangling down. Her lips kissed my eyes, my forehead, my cheek. “So, then.” she whispered again. She sat up straight, made some decision and then crawled up over me. She blocked out the ceiling like a giant, as I looked up at her belly overhead, and she spread her legs into a wide stance, her knees on each side of my head. Above my face, her pussy stretched, wide, wet, aromatic. She lowered it delicately onto my mouth and I felt the welcoming wet slick again framing my lips. I wormed my hands and arms under her thighs to brace her and keep her steady and held that mighty ass in my hands. I felt the big nub of her clit push between my lips.
“Okra.” she said.
With her ass planted in the saddle of my hands, I sucked her thick clit into my lips again and played with it, felt around with my tongue and found the tiny noodle tip of her. I played the rim of it, touched it, pressed my tongue tip to it, wiggled it and lifted it like the okra bud. Above me, I felt her ass moving in my hands as she pressed down harder, and I had to turn my head a little to catch a breath.
Her voice was heavy now, thick and drunk with pleasure. She moved her hips up and down. I laid the flat of my tongue hard against her pussy lips, sticking it out flat and broad as if I were at the doctor’s. She rubbed her cunt lips slowly across the flat of my tongue up and down. She made noises now, grunting and moaning, maybe for me, maybe for herself. She was suddenly full of guttural noise. I wrapped my forearms around her ass and pulled her pussy down hard on my mouth and she ground herself fiercely against me so that I had to hold my breath.
Her pussy lips shuddered. She snarled like a jaguar and hunched her back. “Dios! Fuck!” she yelled at the window. There was that funny shaking against my tongue again from deep inside her pussy.
She reached back her hand and slapped my face so hard I saw squirming stars against the shadow of her belly. She took a deep long breath and let it out. “Don’t think you know me.” Thick and hostile, her voice, like a mean drunk. “Don’t you ever fucking think you know shit about me, little boy.”
Then she began again. “Okra!”
I like this Doña Soledad. Hell, I’d mow her lawn any day.
Posted by Garceus at 12:47 AM